How to Survive Middle School (2 page)

We live in an old house with only one bathroom for the entire upstairs. Sharing it becomes a pain, especially when Lindsay does her zits-be-gone routine. I’m grateful Bubbe has her own apartment downstairs with its own bathroom or she’d probably barge in on me, too.

“Coming!” I turn off the camera and flush. No need to let Dad know I was making a video in our bathroom.

When I open the door, Dad runs a hand through his scary morning hair and belches. “’Scuse me.”

“Sure,” I say, a little grossed out, and walk past him with the magazine and the camera behind my back.

In my room, I put the camera on my desk, plop onto my bed, stare at Hammy running like a maniac on his wheel and think,
Jon Stewart, I’ll bet you didn’t start out this way!

Before Elliott arrives, I edit my
TalkTime
video and upload it to YouTube.

Without Elliott helping, the credits read
Director—David Greenberg; Producer—David Greenberg; Cameraman—David Greenberg; Host—David Greenberg; Special Guest Star—Magazine Cover Jon Stewart; Daily Acne Forecast—Lindsay Greenberg; World-Famous Hamster—Hammy Greenberg
.

I think this is one of my best videos yet. Too bad the only people who watch them and comment are Elliott, Bubbe, Ms. Florez from Longwood El and someone named LADM. I wish I could e-mail Mom and tell her about this new one. But I can’t. And even if I could, she wouldn’t be able to watch it anyway. I’m sure she’ll catch up to the twenty-first century. Someday.

By the time Elliott finally shows—late, as usual—I have everything ready for the perfect first day of summer. Paul Newman’s popcorn is in a bowl on the coffee table in the living room.
And my red plastic tub of K’nex building pieces sits near Mom’s tuba in the corner for after we’re done watching the
Daily Show
episodes.

When I open the door for Elliott, he walks into the living room, drops his yearbook on the coffee table and asks, “What do you think this means?”

“Hey, Elliott. Nice to see you, too.”

“This is serious, David. I looked through my yearbook, and Cara Epstein put not one but two hearts after her name. See?” He points to two tiny purple hearts. “What do you think this means?”

I consider telling Elliott it means he’s crazy, but one look at his face lets me know this would be cruel, so I study the writing as though it’s a newly discovered bit of hieroglyphics.

The purple hearts appear after her name. The same purple hearts she drew after her signature in
my
yearbook. But something about Elliott—maybe his wild eyes, or the way he looks like I might be about to say he has three weeks left to live—tells me that now is not the right time to be honest. So I shut his yearbook, take a deep breath as though I’m about to spout some deep, ancient wisdom and say, “No clue.”

“No clue!”
Elliott paces our living room. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”

“I am your friend, moron!” I shove Elliott’s shoulder.

“Then help me, supermoron!” He shoves back. “I’ve been obsessing about this since yesterday.” Elliott stares into my eyes. “Do you think Cara Epstein likes me?”

“Do I think Cara Epstein likes you?” It’s at this moment I look at Elliott, really look at him, and notice he has the beginnings of a mustache over either side of his upper lip. I guess I’d always thought it was a shadow or chocolate milk or dirt, but standing this close to him, I can tell it’s the fine dark hairs of an actual mustache.

I feel like somebody punched me in the gut. My upper lip is as hairless as Paul Shaffer’s bald head.

“What do you think?” Elliott gulps a handful of popcorn. “Does she like me?”

My breathing accelerates. Elliott is turning into a man-boy. And I’m still a scrawny, clear-skinned, no-hint-of-a-muscle-anywhere-on-my-body boy-boy.

“David?”

There is desperation in Elliott’s eyes. I haven’t seen him look this intense since he found a rare Charizard card in a new pack of Pokémon trading cards in first grade.

“David!” he shrieks.

“What’s going on?” Dad shouts from his office on the other side of the house.

“Nothing!” I yell. “Sorry, Dad!” I punch Elliott hard in the arm. “Shut up.”

“Ow,” Elliott says, rubbing his arm. “I forgot your dad’s working, but I’m going crazy here.”

“Shhh,” I say, afraid Elliott will scream again. I look at the entry in Elliott’s yearbook, then at Elliott. At the entry. At Elliott. Entry. Elliott. I know there’s only one thing I can say to calm him. “Yes, I definitely think Cara Epstein likes you.”

His eyes look like they’re going to burst out of their sockets.
Does he expect me to say something else?

“A lot.”

Elliott practically lunges at me. “What makes you say that?”

“The, um, hearts. If she liked you a little, she’d have put one heart, but she put two.”

“Then why didn’t she put three?” Elliott is actually sweating. Over Cara Epstein, who is this ordinary girl who threw up once in second grade after eating expired strawberry yogurt.

“David!”

“Overkill. Three would have been overkill.” I feel like I’m talking him down from a ledge. If this is what liking a girl does to you, I want no part of it until I’m at least thirty.

“You’re right.” Elliott relaxes next to me on the couch. “This is good. Very good.”

“Elliott?”

He looks distracted. “Yeah?”

“Can we watch
The Daily Show
now?”

He pats his yearbook. “Yeah, totally. Put it on.” He grabs another handful of popcorn. “Let the marathon begin.”

I lean back, feeling like I just performed an exorcism. After starting the show, I grab some popcorn and think about what a great first day of summer this is going to be.

But during Jon Stewart’s opening monologue, I catch Elliott peeking at his yearbook. I want to hurl it across the room and tell him to pay attention.

At the first commercial, Elliott opens his yearbook again, and my heart sinks. “Hey, David, want to go to the mall?”

I look at the TV and at the K’nex box in the corner and at Elliott. “Why? There’s nothing fun to do at the mall, except the food court.”

“I know.” Elliott’s cheeks grow red. “But Cara might be hanging out there.”

“We’ve got
The Daily Show
s to watch and K’nex for later.”
The perfect summer day
.

“Yeah, but don’t you think the mall might be fun, too?”

I feel my perfect day slipping away.

“No, I’d rather—”

“I’ll owe you big,” Elliott says.

I remind myself how many years we’ve been friends, except for that time in first grade when we didn’t talk for two weeks because he said Batman was way better than Superman. Any idiot knows that aside from his little Kryptonite issue, Superman is far superior.

“Sure,” I say, switching off the TV. “Daaad! Can you drive us to the mall?”

“David,” Elliott says, shoving my shoulder, “this is going to be the best summer ever.”

“Totally,” I say, though the way things are going, I have my doubts. “Daaaaaaad!”

“Yeah, I’ll drive you,” Dad calls from his office. “Give me a minute.”

“All right!” Elliott punches me in the arm. “This is so great.”

My arm hurts where he punched me.
Yeah, so great
.

I was right about the first day setting the tone for the entire summer.

Now it’s September, and Elliott and I have gone to the mall a total of twenty-four times. Twenty-four! That’s more than Lindsay and her girlfriends have gone. And they’re
girls
!

I can’t believe I’ve spent my entire summer cruising past Victoria’s Secret with Elliott. He says he thinks Cara might shop in there. Yeah, right! He likes looking at the underwear on the mannequins.
Get a catalog, perv!

Every time we’ve walked past, I hoped Elliott would come to his senses and want to do something fun. This was no way for a guy to spend his
entire
summer.

But Elliott never caught on that this was incredibly boring. To make things worse, we saw Cara Epstein a grand total of once. She was sitting at the fountain with Ethan Leikach, Elyssa Silverman
and Jared Stevens. Elliott didn’t even have the guts to walk up and say hi.

On the last Friday of summer break, I sip a Mango Madness shake at the food court and shoot mental darts at a little scar on Elliott’s forehead. “We didn’t make one video together all summer,” I mumble.

“Huh?” Elliott asks, putting down the iced coffee I bought for him.

“Nothing,” I say.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Everything
. “Nothing.”

“Good,” Elliott says.

“Good.”

Elliott goes back to acting like he’s so grown-up, drinking coffee and checking out the girls walking by.

I go back to shooting mental darts at his forehead.

We had so much fun together last summer. We built swords and shields out of empty paper-towel rolls, cereal boxes and silver foil and had superhero battles in my driveway. Once, we built a giant K’nex Ferris wheel and roller coaster that actually worked. Elliott’s not allowed to have friends over when his mom’s at work. And since his dad walked out on them, she’s always at work. That was why Elliott practically lived at our house, and we had such great times together.

What happened to all that fun? What happened to
Elliott
? All he wants to do now is talk about girls. More specifically, about whether Cara Epstein likes him. A few times, I considered telling Elliott I thought Cara drew two purple hearts in everyone’s
yearbook, but I couldn’t do that to him. Even though he did ruin my summer.

Well, at least there’s still Labor Day weekend. And Elliott promised to help make our best
TalkTime
video ever.

I kick him under the table.

“Wha?” He bends and rubs his leg.

“You’re helping me shoot on Monday. Right?”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Really,” I say, trying to find a glimmer of my old friend. “Are you going to be there or what? We haven’t made one video the whole summer and school starts Tuesday.”

He glares at me. “I said I’ll be there.”

“Good. Shooting starts at nine. Be on time.”

“I
said
I’ll be there.”

I take a long, loud slurp of Mango Madness.

When Elliott looks up, annoyed, I’m glad.

“My aunt’s pool party is tomorrow,” I say.

“Have fun,” he says in a way that means the opposite.

“I will,” I say. But I know I won’t. My cousin Jack will be there, and he terrifies me. Last year, I accidentally fell into their swimming pool, fully dressed and holding a paper plate piled with potato salad. And I can’t swim! Especially through chunks of potato salad.

“Good for you,” Elliott says.

“Good for you,” I mock. Then I lean close and say, “You know, it’s not my fault Cara only showed once at the mall.”
And you didn’t have the guts to talk to her
.

Elliott makes a face like he swallowed an ice cube. “Shut up!”

I chuck my empty cup at him and start walking.

“Hey,” Elliott says. “Where you going?”

I turn around and yell as loudly as I can, “Out of this stupid mall!”

“Wait up.” Elliott runs after me.

I don’t stop until I’m outside at the bench where Dad is supposed to pick us up. I expect Elliott to say he’s sorry, but he just stands next to me, rocking back on his heels.

When Dad finally pulls up, I get into the front seat, leaving Elliott to climb into the back by himself.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Greenberg,” Elliott says.

“No problem. You guys have a good time?”

“Great,” I say, hoping to end the conversation.

“Yeah,” Elliott says, kicking the back of my seat. “Great.”

When Dad stops in front of Elliott’s apartment building, Elliott and I barely nod at each other. I watch him disappear inside the building and my stomach tightens.

I want to tell Dad that Elliott’s been acting like a total idiot this summer. But Dad is humming and tapping the steering wheel, and ever since Mom left, it’s rare to see him this happy, so I don’t say anything to ruin his mood.